


Five Times Clint Fell Asleep on Phil

by coffeejunkii



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Clint Needs a Hug, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sleep Deprivation, Sometimes Phil Is Oblivious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-14 12:52:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2192535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeejunkii/pseuds/coffeejunkii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After working with Barton for two years, Phil has learned that sleep is a contested subject for his specialist. Barton can doze anywhere, but he can only sleep deeply when he feels safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Clint Fell Asleep on Phil

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ralkana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/gifts).



> One day late, but still: Happy Birthday, Ralkana! Enjoy. :)

1.

It's only their third mission together and Phil is still trying to figure out how best to support Barton in the field. The biggest difficulty is that Barton will not always ask for things he needs. He seems to be under the impression that Phil's only job is to give orders when a handler's most important job is to take care of his team. 

This time, it's only the two of them, which should make it easier to foresee what kind of support Barton needs, but it is more difficult because Barton remains tight-lipped. Phil relies mostly on guessing, ordering the protein bars that Barton has taken a liking to and getting R&D to add a fleece lining to Barton's field suit because he'll be in a perch exposed to harsh winds. The pleased smile Phil receives when Barton goes through his pack is reward enough.

The op goes smoothly, mostly, but when Barton rejoins Phil at the rendez-vous point, he is beyond exhausted. There's no way that they'll make the three-hour hike to the landing strip before nightfall. They settle into the back-up shack for the night. It's only four wooden walls and nothing else, but at least it keeps the wind at bay.

Barton nods off against Phil's shoulder within minutes and eventually tumbles over into his lap. Not that Phil minds; Barton will get more rest this way. When Barton seems to get caught up in the beginnings of a bad dream, Phil wraps an arm around him in the hope that the physical contact is enough to settle him. 

It works. Barton's breathing finds its steady rhythm again, eventually lulling Phil to sleep as well.

2.

They're running an op out of a small warehouse. It's too many people for the space, but they can't risk attracting the attention that would come with occupying several buildings. The infiltration has to be timed meticulously, a procedure they could only start once they were on the ground and could begin up-and-close surveillance of their target. While the analysts and the tech team work nearly round the clock, the tac team, including Barton, is on enforced downtime. Phil knows Barton isn't always handling that well, especially not in crowded spaces. He notices that Barton disappears from time to time, probably into the rafters.

After working with Barton for two years, Phil has also learned that sleep is a contested subject for his specialist. Barton can doze anywhere, but he can only sleep deeply when he feels safe. This space is not one that he would find safe. There is almost no privacy; for most of the agents on site, sleeping quarters are a designated space in one corner. There are no doors that lock. Since Phil is running the op, he got the luxury of having a small separate space behind a few crates.

When he notices that Barton is already showing signs of exhaustion on their second day there—days before his skills will be needed—he makes a decision. 

“A word, please,” Phil says to Barton in passing when the warehouse begins to quiet down for the night. He leads the way to his sleeping space.

“Sir?”

They step behind the crates. There isn't much room there, bringing them in close proximity. Phil relaxes his stance, letting the Agent Coulson mask slip a little. He needs Barton to be comfortable with the idea, and that means he needs to show that he's comfortable with it, too.

“I've noticed that the sleeping arrangements here aren't ideal.” When Barton opens his mouth to object, Phil holds up his hand. “I need you to be well-rested for this op. You need sleep. Actual sleep. It'll be a tight fit in here, but I think it's for the best.”

Barton's eyes dart between the crates and Phil's sleeping bag. “You want me to sleep here? With you?”

“Yes.”

Barton glances at his own feet.

“Unless that makes you uncomfortable.”

Barton shakes his head.

Phil is relieved. “Good. You might as well bring your pack in here.”

Barton leaves and Phil settles in for the night. He realizes that having Barton stay with him will only add fuel to the rampant speculations about their relationship, but Phil could care less. He knows where he stands with Barton. Most of the time, at least. 

Barton reappears, backpack in hand. He strips down to his boxers and the thin vest he wears under his field suit. A spark flickers low in Phil's gut, but he stamps it out with practiced efficiency. As Barton stretches out next to him, Phil says, “I like to read for a while at night, but I can turn off the light if it bothers you.”

Barton turns onto his side, back to Phil. “Nah, I'm good.” After a minute, he adds, “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” Phil takes in the way Barton curls in on himself. If Phil had to take a guess, it's a long-standing habit. As always when traces of Barton's past surface in his present behavior, Phil feels a surge of protectiveness. He knows that he's more invested in Barton than in the other agents assigned to him, but Barton hasn't had someone looking out for him in far too long and Phil will make damn sure that he has someone now.

Once Barton falls asleep, he relaxes out of the tight hold. His limbs sprawl, pressing against Phil's. A minute after Phil turns off the light, Barton rolls over into his side. Phil can't help but turn toward him, toward the warmth seeping into his skin. A quiet thrill goes through Phil at finding Barton fast asleep and at ease. It helps him to unwind as well, to let go of the tension that ops seem to install in every cell of his body. 

3.

It honestly surprises Phil that it has taken three years for Barton to suffer serious injuries considering all the stunts he pulls on a regular basis. Medical pages Phil once they wean Barton off the drugs that kept him sedated, requesting his presence for when Barton wakes up. To say that the medical staff and Barton have a tense relationship is an understatement, but Phil doubts that Barton would just up and leave with a leg fractured in two places, broken ribs, and a sprained wrist. He would have been there when Barton wakes up anyway. From experience, Phil knows how disorienting it is to wake up in a hospital bed by yourself.

Phil quietly settles into the chair next to Barton's bed. His heart aches at the sight of the cuts and bruises all over his body. Rationally he knows that he couldn't have done anything to prevent Barton from being caught in the landslide, but he still feels like he let Barton down.

Twitching eyelids and a soft groan suggest Barton is waking up. Phil leans closer. “Hey there.”

Barton groans again.

“It's me. You're at HQ. You'll—” Phil's throat tightens. “You'll be fine.”

Barton surfaces more and he begins to struggle. The heart monitor beeps faster. The last thing he needs is a horde of nurses to descend on him, so Phil closes his hand around Barton's wrist. “You're okay. You're safe.”

Barton's eyes open, searching the room. He keeps blinking, probably struggling to bring his surroundings into focus. Phil leans in until he's directly in Barton's line of sight. “Clint. Look at me.”

Slowly, he settles. “Drugs?” His voice is scratchy and raw.

“Yeah. They needed to keep you under for a little while.”

Barton—Clint—the first name feels right here in this private space—starts shaking his head and the heart monitor spikes again, worse than before.

“I know. It's fine. Please believe me that nothing happened to you while you were out.” Clint continues to look at him with wide eyes. The muscles under Phil's arm tense. Phil casts for something to say, something that will help Clint calm down. He understands Clint's reaction—he hates sedatives, too. “You're okay.” 

“Don' leave.”

“I'm not leaving.” There's doubt in Clint's eyes. Additional words might not take that away. Phil tentatively strokes over Clint's hair. Slowly, his heart rate comes down. “Not going anywhere.”

Clint's eyes close. “No drugs.”

“How's your pain?”

“No drugs,” he repeats softly.

“Okay.” That will be a tough fight, but it's not the first time Phil has gone toe-to-toe with Medical over Clint.

Clint is just about to drop off when a nurse and a doctor come in and start prodding him. Phil understands the necessity, but he can see how much it agitates Clint. He puts his foot down when the nurse starts drawing more sedatives. The doctor gives him an update on Clint's progress. Fortunately, she seems open to leaving Clint alone unless something in his status changes. 

After they leave, Phil locks the door and switches off the bright overhead lights. He flicks on the small lamp on the table next to Clint's bed and sets it on the floor. A soft light spreads around the room.

Phil sits back down in the chair. “Door's locked. Think that's enough so you can sleep?”

Clint nods. He tugs on Phil's arm. “Closer.”

Phil shuffles the chair closer until his knees hit the side of the bed. He thinks this is close enough, but Clint makes an unhappy noise and reaches for him again. It turns out that when he said closer, he meant “right here.” Phil ends up with one arm carefully slung around Clint's middle and with his head pillowed on his other arm, only a few inches from Clint's face. He tells himself that Clint is still under the influence of pain meds and that having a familiar presence nearby must be comforting. And if it's comforting to Phil to feel Clint breathing and alive, well, that's an added bonus.

“Go to sleep,” Phil whispers. “I'll be here when you wake up.”

Clint makes a pleased noise, turning his head toward Phil. In the low light, his injuries are less visible. The lines on his face smooth out as he slips into sleep. The feelings that well up in Phil at the sight of Clint stretched out next to him, trusting him to be this close when he's vulnerable, are familiar by now. Sometimes, in moments like this, Phil allows himself to wonder what it would be like if they were returned. 

4.

Budapest changes many things. Clint gets more careful during missions. Phil worries about Clint even more than before. He's still not sure how they made it out of there alive—barely alive, that is. Phil remains skeptical about Romanov, but Clint trusts her, which means that Phil is willing to give her a chance. Clint and Romanov work well together, some innate connection turning them into an efficient team. In his weak moments, Phil feels jealousy stirring in some back corner of his mind. The sentiment is entirely unnecessary. Clint comes to see him—comes to talk to him—as often as before. Maybe more frequently, even.

Clint takes to napping on Phil's office couch a few times a week. At first, Phil is concerned about this new behavior. Clint has taken on additional responsibilities as he's moving up the ranks, so perhaps he's adjusting. But when Clint is over-scheduled, he requests changes. Phil is glad that Clint has learned that he can and should mention these kinds of things to Phil.

It's nice to have Clint around even if he mostly sleeps. Sometimes Phil sits on the couch with files he needs to review and pulls Clint's feet into his lap. Depending on how late Clint shows up for a nap, they get dinner together after. They linger over their food, easy conversation filling the time. Phil cherishes those evenings. Judging by how often Clint smiles during their shared meals, he does, too.

5.

About six months after Budapest, Fury sweeps into Phil's office, slams a file down on his desk, and tells him to make sure that “Agent Barton gets some goddamn sleep already.” Fury leaves without waiting for Phil's response.

Confused, Phil's opens the folder. It's Clint's latest medical report. He's in good shape aside from chronic sleep deprivation. The diagnosis surprises Phil. Clint never mentioned anything about having difficulties with sleep, or at least not anything beyond what they've both known for years. 

Phil goes to the range. He slips in quietly, but the brief tense-and-relax of Clint's shoulders tells him that he's been noticed. Phil waits until Clint has finished his routine. As always, he enjoys watching Clint work with his bow, admiring his elegance and strength. 

After carefully stowing his equipment, Clint walks over to Phil. “What's up?”

“I got the results of your physical.”

Clint slumps against the wall, head bowed. “Yeah?”

Phil steps close to him. He keeps his voice quiet, non-threatening. He's not here to make accusations. “Seems like you haven't been sleeping.”

Clint scrubs a hand over his face.

“Which seems odd to me because I see you sleep all the time.”

A sad smile tugs at the corners of Clint's mouth. “Yeah, you do.”

Phil frowns. “And?”

Clint pushes away from the wall. “Can we not do this here?”

“I can't let you go without discussing—”

“I know,” Clint interrupts. “But not here. Okay? I can't—not here.”

He looks tired. Now that Phil knows what to look for, it's easy to see. How did he not realize it before? “We can go to my office. Or...I was on my way home.” Phil isn't fully aware of the suggestion until he makes it. He's never invited Clint over before, but he has an inkling that Clint wants to have this conversation in private and away from SHIELD.

Clint exhales. “Yeah. Let's go to your place.”

Phil uses his privileges to get them a car. He doesn't want to bother with either the subway or a cab, and theoretically, he's entitled to having someone drive him to and from work. Clint nods off during the fifteen-minute drive to Phil's building. He doesn't seem to wake up entirely until they've closed the front door of Phil's apartment behind them. 

Clint rubs his eyes, then looks around. “Nice place.”

Phil shrugs. He likes it even though it's probably an eyesore to modern interior decorating. He would have straightened up if he'd known someone was coming over, but Clint probably doesn't care about that. They toe off their shoes. Phil slips out of his jacket and takes off his tie.

“Are you hungry? Or want anything to drink?”

Clint shakes his head. “'m fine. Can we?” He gestures to the couch. 

“Sure.” Phil settles in one corner, one knee up on the couch, making sure his body language is friendly and open. 

Clint sits next to him. Not quite close enough to touch, but not exactly far away, either. He leans back against the cushions, hands twisting in his lap. 

“Whatever it is,” Phil begins, “I'm sure we can figure it out.”

Clint gives him a long look before his gaze drops back to his fingers. “The thing is—I just didn't know. I didn't know what it's like to really sleep. I mean, I've been sleeping my whole life, obviously. But sleep was always, I don't know, fleeting. I guess I learned pretty early on that letting yourself sleep too much or too deeply screws you over. And that's worked well for me. But then...”

Phil waits. He's no stranger to interrupted sleep, but to have been trained—by terrible circumstance—to remain close to the surface of wakefulness at all times isn't something Phil can grasp. There is such joy in boneless, dead-to-the-world sleep that he can't imagine not having had that for most of your life.

“Then I got to SHIELD, and we started going on ops, and sometimes, we'd end up sharing a bed. Um, you and I, I mean. There was that warehouse op a few years ago, and then in Budapest...don't get me wrong, Budapest was fucked up from start to finish, but for those three weeks, you were right there every night, next to me, and...” Clint's voice drops to a whisper. “I've never slept like that.”

Phil goes very still. He thinks he understands what Clint is implying, but surely that can't mean—it doesn't make sense. “I'm not sure I'm following.”

Clint looks at him. There's a yearning in his eyes that pulls the rug out from under Phil. “I don't really sleep anymore unless you're around.”

Phil's utterly dumbfounded. He knows Clint trusts him, but this—this goes so far beyond that. Perhaps this should go to his head, but instead, he feels at a loss. Why him? Why would he be the person who has that much influence over Clint? 

“Sorry,” Clint mumbles. “I know that's fucked up. But what else is new, right?”

The self-deprecation spurs Phil into action. “It's not fucked up. It's something we need to work on, but for now...Jesus, are those naps in my office the only sleep you get?”

“Kinda?”

Phil shifts closer to Clint. “That's maybe twenty hours. How have you been getting by?”

“I manage.”

According to Clint's medical report, not well enough. Phil stretches out his arm along the back of the couch. His fingers brush over Clint's nape. “Tell me what you need.”

“Can I stay here? Tonight?”

Phil already decided that Clint wouldn't go anywhere. “Of course.”

**

It should be odd having Clint in his bed, but it's not. Phil's used to the sprawl of Clint's limbs next to him. After all, they've bunked together for days, or weeks in the case of Budapest, at a time. 

Phil wakes up first, which is unsurprising considering that this is most likely the first night of real sleep Clint has gotten in months. Clint is tucked against his side, one hand loosely curled around Phil's wrist. Almost as if he needs to reassure himself that Phil is really there. Phil turns toward Clint, taking care not to wake him. Clint's head comes to rest against his chest. Their bodies fit well together. Phil closes his eyes, burying his nose in Clint's hair. If Phil could wake up every day like this, he'd have no objections. But that's not what this is about.

When it becomes clear that Clint won't wake up for a while, Phil gets his laptop and starts working. Clint slowly migrates closer again until his face is pressed against Phil's hip. It only make sense to rest one hand on Clint's back where it's easy to feel the slow in-and-out of his breath. 

Phil is halfway through his inbox when snuffling noises suggest that Clint is waking up. He tenses and stretches, then slumps back down. “Good morning.” Clint says something that might be “morning” but sounds more like “mrrrmmff.” When he tries to pull away, Phil presses down with his hand, signaling that he should stay where he is. He does. 

“Seems late.”

Phil finishes typing a sentence, then closes the lid and slides the laptop off the bed. “It's 11:30.”

Clint tenses. “Oh shit.”

“I called in sick. For both of us.”

Clint slips out of Phil's hold and sits up. “You never call in sick. Not even that one time when you had pneumonia and Hill had to get security to take you to Medical.”

“You needed sleep. Not a nap. Real sleep.”

Clint studies him. His hair is sticking up and there's a crease on his cheek. But his eyes are clear and alert. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome.”

They should probably get out of bed. Get dressed, have breakfast. But neither of them move. Clint yawns and lies back down, stealing part of the propped-up pillows Phil leans against. “Feel free to kick me out whenever.”

“Clint. I'm not kicking you out.”

“Kay. Whatever you say, boss.”

When Clint gets flippant like that, he's usually anxious about something. Phil feels rather out of his league at the moment. If they were in his office, he'd know how to coax whatever is bothering Clint out of him. That's his job. But this is far more personal. And Phil doesn't do personal very well. “Why didn't you tell me? That you haven't been able to sleep?”

“Because it seemed so dumb, not being able to sleep by myself. And I was doing fine. Mostly.”

That's not the entire reason. “Why me?” Phil has wondered about that since Clint told him.

Clint turns his face into Phil's shoulder. “How can you not know?”

Phil doesn't trust his voice to do more than whisper. “Know what?”

Clint leans more fully against Phil. He brings a hand up to Phil's chest, thumb swiping right above his heart. “That you're everything to me.”

“But...”

“There's no but. You're kind, and smart, and you've always had my back. And you get me.” Clint laughs. “Did you seriously not know?”

Phil's heart races. “I've wondered, but I didn't think...” He's at a loss, brain a jumble of too many feelings. He lays his hand over Clint's, hoping he'll understand that he feels the same way, that Clint is everything to him as well.

“I never thought that I'd say this, but then you're dumb. We're both dumbasses. Natasha was right.”

“Natasha?”

Clint straightens up until he's on eye-level with Phil. “Yeah. She kinda had this all figured out a while ago.”

Natasha deserves a promotion. Clint is very close and looking at him with intent. His arm snakes behind Phil's head, fingers rubbing behind his ear and down his neck. Phil shivers all the way down to his toes. 

Clint leans in, nudging his nose against Phil's.

“Morning breath,” Phil mumbles. He's not nervous. Not at all.

“Don't care.”

Clint's lips press against his, gentle and sweet. The kiss stays like this for a while, bordering on chaste, until Clint's tongue nudges against Phil's lips. Things flip into messy and urgent and demanding. Phil pushes closer with a whine, trying to get as close to Clint as possible. Just when they're about to fall into something heated and unstoppable, Clint gentles the kiss again, pulling away to nuzzle against Phil's cheek. 

“Believe me now?” Clint asks softly.

“No doubts.” He wants to stay like this with Clint forever. Which means he should probably share some of his own feelings. “You should know that—”

“I know.” Clint looks at him with amusement. “It's all over your face. It's nice to see. Um.”

They need to work on the whole using-their-words thing. “Good. Okay. That's good.”

Clint smiles, bright and happy. “Yeah, it is.”


End file.
